


kind of woman

by julietcapulet



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julietcapulet/pseuds/julietcapulet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of semi-related drabbles centering around the relationship between Cordelia Foxx and Misty Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. temptation falls in your path

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misty, as the new acting Supreme, struggles to control her emotion-linked powers around the headmistress.

Fiona Goode is dead. Misty Day is the Supreme. Cordelia should be relieved (but she isn’t).

They may have vanquished one evil in the witch hunters, but where there are witches there is danger and Misty is now the coven’s figurehead––representative of all the power in the coven and, indeed, even outside the coven. Misty was powerful before. She is _godlike_ now.

And it terrifies the headmistress (who is motherless and husbandless and alone in a sea of students who need her). Misty is so powerful and so vulnerable and so young, and––and she’s relying on Cordelia to teach her and Cordelia doesn’t know the first _thing_ about being the _Supreme_ because the only Supreme she ever knew was an embarrassment to the coven (and to humanity as a whole, let’s face it).

“Miss Cordelia,” comes the voice of the one person Cordelia is trying to avoid.

She sighs, straightens, plasters on a smile. “Misty,” she says, tightly, restraining the thousand emotions swirling beneath her skin. “What can I do for you?” she knows what she _wants_ to do for her. She wants to protect her. She wants to take the mantle of supreme away from her and fix everything, take her out of danger, ensure her safety. But she can’t, despite how desperately she wishes to (she wonders, does it show?).

“Well––oh, _shit_ ,” Misty gasps, after accidentally lighting a small fire at the base of one of Cordelia’s hanging plants. The headmistress acts quickly, grabbing her pail of water and splashing it on the small cluster of flames. She’s used to this. As Misty gets used to her new powers she’s been setting things on fire, freezing things, making things disappear, and a variety of other inconvenient nonverbal impulses motivated by an unbridled expression of emotion that, as of now, she’s finding difficult to control (she’s still working on reeling it in). “I’m so sorry, I’m––” she sighs, sheepishly looking down at her feet. “When I pictured myself as the Supreme I knew it would be hard. But this is harder than I ever imagined. I keep destroyin’ things and I can’t stop. I’m sorry.”

Cordelia dabs absently at the perspiration collecting at her neck and softens at Misty’s guilt. “It’s alright,” she says, assuring her as best she can. “This is a natural part of your development. I’m sure every Supreme has gone through a similar period and made it through. You’ll learn to control it. Auntie Myrtle will help you.” _Better than I can_. At least _someone_ ’s doing something useful around here.

Misty takes a step forward, the ground simmering beneath her feet. Her emotions are so much harder to conceal, now. And fire always seems to be at her fingertips when she’s in the presence of Cordelia. It doesn’t go unnoticed. By anyone (much to Misty’s embarrassment). In fact, it seems that her powers are _most_ rampant when she’s around Cordelia (because her nerve-endings are shivering and the overflow of magic within her squirms in her veins and achieves its own painful release and she’s helpless to stop it).

(Maybe that’s why Cordelia wants so urgently to protect her, because she knows that if _she_ were the Supreme she too would be leaking magic everywhere when around Misty.)

(And maybe that terrifies her more than just a little.)

When Cordelia looks up and notices the tears collecting at the folds of Misty's red, swelling eyelids, she furrows her brow and closes the distance between them without thinking, reaching her hand forward to take hold of Misty’s. “Misty––” she starts, but––

“I can’t do it, Cordelia,” she says, voice breaking. “It’s _too much_. I can’t do it.”

Cordelia shakes her head. “Yes you can, Misty. I know you can. Look,” she begins, with a half smile, “If you can be burned at the stake and emerge from the ashes as good as knew, you can do this. You’re one of the strongest people I know. You’re Rhiannon.” So, maybe Cordelia has been hearing too much of Stevie Nicks lately and has inadvertently memorized a good deal of lyrics. She knows the affirmation will help ease Misty’s worry, that’s all.

But the reaction she gets isn’t necessarily what she expects, because she’s hardly taken a breath after offering her council before her mouth is swallowed by Misty’s and she is suddenly surrounded by this incredible _heat_ and––

“Misty,” she gasps, breaking the kiss, because, oh _god_ , what is she _doing_? “You’re going to set the greenhouse on fire.” It's the only thing she can think to say. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m sorry, it’s just––that’s the best compliment anyone’s ever given me,” she breathes, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed. “Lord, I’m sorry, Cordelia, I let it get to my head, and…” she trails off, words stifled by the heat of shame and exposure in her chest.

“It’s okay,” Cordelia says, retreating. “But maybe we shouldn’t––until your powers are more under control.” _Until I’m more under control_ , she thinks to herself, because this is wrong, she shouldn’t be doing this, she _can’t_ be doing this.

But Misty reaches forward to stop her and takes her hand, and at the contact of their hands all the lightbulbs in the greenhouse burst, and Misty’s murmuring apologies almost as quickly as Cordelia’s kissing them away because, god, Misty is the only thing that feels safe to Cordelia anymore.

“Cordelia, the greenhouse, I don’t want to do anythin’ bad to it on accident.”

“Then let’s go somewhere else.”

They smile in the darkness and damn the consequences.


	2. and yes, she matters, to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misty confronts Fiona about her mistreatment of Cordelia.

Of all the people to take up in your daughter’s bedroom, the last one you’d expect is the goddamn swamp witch.

But here you are, in the drawing room, smoking a cigarette and staring at the faces of the past Supremes (mocking you with their jealous sneers that you’re sure are for your eyes only), the cramps inside your bones clamoring through your feeble body distilled only by the brandy you’re swallowing in copious amounts––and there she is, the little slip of a girl, with her multicolored shawl and big, doe eyes, looking at you with an accusing glare to rival the paintings on the wall.

“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure?” you ask, slightly nonplussed. Your body reacts to her presence as if it _knows_ she’s the next Supreme, the one siphoning all your power out (the next Supreme _would_ be the goddamn immortal, you think, cursing your luck). “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” It’s one o’clock in the morning and all the other girls are asleep, or so you’ve been told, though you’re fairly certain the undead trifecta upstairs has other designs. What is Misty doing awake? Though, to be quite candid, you don’t care.

“I wanted to talk to you about Miss Cordelia,” she confesses, and ah, _there it is_. “I think you done wrong by her and I want you to apologize.” She’s fiddling with the tassels on the end of her scarf but otherwise she’s firm, a bravado hitherto unrevealed to you now making itself apparent. Hm, you think with an inward smirk, perhaps she is the next Supreme after all.

“My daughter’s decision to mutilate herself is far from my fault,” you deflect airily, dragging from your cigarette. The words fall flat on the ground between the two of you and you sigh, ignoring the tremor of pain that shoots up from the small of your back as you seat yourself on the chair at the far end of the room, the one you occupied after slitting Madison’s throat (the memory returns to you fondly and you smile to yourself, because, hell, you still got it). “Besides, Cordelia has never needed my apology for anything. She’s not a child.” You glance at her, quirking a brow with a click of your tongue. “But then, you know that, don’t you, Misty?”

“That’s none of your business,” she stammers, a blush creeping up her cheeks, bravado melting under the heat of your insinuation.

“Oh, it is entirely my business,” you counter casually, swigging from your brandy. “Seeing as the last person who crawled between my daughter’s legs tried to destroy this coven, I do think I have a right to know who his replacement is.”

“I am not a replacement,” Misty seethes, taking a step forward. She looks like she’s about to say something more but stops, face hardening. “I ain’t gunna explain myself to you. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then why are you here?” you drawl, annoyance building in your gut. “To chastise me for being a bad mother? Because, trust me, _honey_ , I already know. Save yourself the trouble.” When she remains quiet, you lean back against the back of the chair and add, “Now, get out of here before I put that immortality of yours to the test.”

Misty has the audacity to laugh. “Oh, please. You ain’t strong enough to kill me. You ain’t strong enough to kill anyone. I don’t want to fight, Fiona. I just want you to talk to her. Do something nice before you die.”

“And how do you know I’m going to die?”

Misty leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you, and it’s all you can do to keep smiling as you fix your eyes, unblinkingly, to hers.

“Because I can _smell_ it,” she says, softly, and something curdles within you. “And you don’t got a lot of time left.”

Knowing she delivered the final blow, Misty starts to saunter out of the room but stops, turns back to face you, and adds, “How much regret you gunna die with, Fiona?”

You shake your head with a tired grin. “I have no regrets,” is all you say, before she scoffs and glides out of the room.

And then you’re alone again, with only the paintings to witness your defeat, and you pour another glass of brandy because Misty’s _right_ , ultimately, but it’s too late for you and Cordelia now. The best you can do is die and leave her with someone who loves her––not Myrtle, for Christ’s sake, or the girls, but with someone like Misty.

Misty, who is clearly the only person on this earth to love Cordelia the way she ought to be loved.

So, yes, you’ll die with regret. Better to die with dignity than with an apology on your lips, after all. And your bloodline will die out with Cordelia, the barren cow, but at least––at least what?

Well, at least she’ll be _loved_.

You laugh brokenly to yourself in the darkness and light another cigarette.


	3. she came to you when you were alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misty and Cordelia struggle with their feelings before the Seven Wonders.

It has been exactly two weeks and three days since Cordelia decided that she is in love with Misty Day, and it has been exactly two weeks and three days since Cordelia decided she isn’t going to do anything about it. The coven needs her now more than ever and while she’s relieved to have Misty’s presence back at Robichaux’s she can’t allow herself the luxury of a distraction (but, god, if only she could see her again).

But it’s obvious, isn’t it? Cordelia doesn’t need eyes to know that everyone’s figured it out, because heaven knows she’s always worn her emotions on her sleeve and discretion isn’t exactly her forte. Misty’s _always_ hovering around her and it’s hard to focus when she’s around because, well, she’s _there_ and she smells of incense and earth and hope, and––Cordelia stops, inhales shakily, reels in her thoughts. She can’t be _daydreaming_ right now when the Seven Wonders are tomorrow morning. She has to prepare.

Misty making breakfast for Cordelia (Cordelia _letting_ her), Cordelia constantly checking in to see how she’s recovering, listening to Stevie Nicks on repeat for the umpteenth time as Misty tries to reveal some new hidden meaning only she can hear––it has to stop. Living this little fairytale isn’t doing either of them any favors. This calm before the storm. This sanctuary before the chaos. The day of reckoning is at hand and all they can do is long for one another in silence and waste time dreaming about the future they both know they can never have. If Misty is the Supreme there could be a chance at some semblance of a happy ending, but if not––

––everyone knows you either prove yourself to be the new Supreme or you die trying.

This very well could be Misty’s last day on earth. She needs to be spending it with calm reflection and practice. She needs to avoid all distractions and focus on accomplishing the task at hand. She needs to be alone.

So, then, what is Cordelia _doing_ standing in front of her door, hand poised to knock?

“Misty?” she calls, uncertainly. “Are you there?”

The door opens and if Cordelia still had her eyes she would see Misty’s pink flush of excitement at hearing Cordelia say her name. “Miss Cordelia,” she says, softly. “Come on in.”

Misty reaches out to take Cordelia’s arm and help her in, but she knows better––she knows that Cordelia isn’t an invalid and doesn’t appreciate being treated as such (it almost took an act of god himself to get Cordelia to let Misty cook her breakfast) so she falters, steps to the side allowing Cordelia ample space to assess her surroundings with her walking stick, and closes the door behind her once she finds her way in.

 _Bella Donna_ is playing softly in the background as Cordelia moves her way forward and sits down on Misty’s unmade bed, hands anchoring themselves on the bedposts. “How are you feeling, Misty?” she asks, in part already guessing at the answer.

“I’m fine,” she deflects easily, sitting beside Cordelia with an unconvincing smile. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Been through death two times before, I can face it again.” She’s lying, of course; she doesn’t _want_ to die (and it doesn’t escape her mind that the second time she faced death it was the thoughts of Cordelia that brought her strength), but she also doesn’t want to inspire another worry line on Cordelia’s face so she keeps quiet, looking down from Cordelia as if to hide the untruth that she knows Cordelia can’t even see (but still, nonetheless, she’s sure of it, can _sense_ ).

“Misty,” Cordelia starts, less than mollified. “Please, be honest with me. I know it must be terrifying.”

Misty shakes her head. “Death don’t terrify me,” she admits, and she is somewhat earnest in that confession, at least. “Dyin’ with _regret_ is what I’m fixin’ to avoid.”

“What do you mean?” Cordelia probes, brows furrowed.

“I mean that there’s some things I gotta do before tomorrow, just in case, so that if I die I can at least die knowin’ I did ‘em.”

Cordelia finds her heart picking up speed as Misty’s words start to sink in. “I don’t understand.” But, oh, she _does_.

Misty’s heart, too, is beating at a rapid pace, as she leans forward and takes Cordelia’s hand in her own. “What do you see?” she asks, timidly, as she places Cordelia’s hand over her heartbeat. “What do you feel?”

At the contact, Cordelia’s mouth goes dry and she bites down on her lower lip, straining to focus against the soft warmth that she feels emanating from beneath Misty’s skin. “I––I don’t––” she mumbles, because she hasn’t regained full control of her visions yet and she can’t just trigger them by contact anymore.

“You can do it,” Misty assures her, quietly, tightening her grip on Cordelia’s hand.

And then Cordelia _sees_. More than just sees––she _feels_. She feels the stirrings of passion swelling inside Misty’s heart as she takes her first breath out of that coffin and lays eyes on Cordelia. She sees the world through Misty’s eyes as she readjusts to life at Robichaux’s and watches Cordelia with two parts desire and one part admiration from a distance. She sees––she _sees_ and she _feels_ ––in Misty a perfect reflection of everything she herself has been seeing and feeling since Misty returned. And with a bravery hitherto unknown to her Cordelia pulls her hand away from Misty’s and drags it upward to tug on her chin and bring her closer, so that Cordelia can align their lips and bring them together in a wordless affirmation of understanding.

Breathless, Misty pulls back from the kiss and grins against Cordelia’s lips. “I knew you could do it,” she says, triumphantly, running a finger along Cordelia’s jawline.

Cordelia’s smiling back until she catches herself and stops, abruptly shifting backward and away from Misty’s warmth. “You don’t want me,” she insists, shaking her head. “Shit, Misty, _look_ at me. I’m a monster.” She’s seen what she looks like through the eyes of others and it’s worse than she could have even imagined.

Misty lets out a chuckle and scoots forward, taking Cordelia’s head in her hands. She leans forward, suddenly, and without hesitation plants a soft kiss on each one of the headmistress’s battered, swollen eyelids. Cordelia shivers. “You know what I see when I look at you, Miss Cordelia? I see the only one who ever gave a rat’s ass about this coven. That don’t make you a monster. That makes you a leader. Makes you even more beautiful than before, and stronger than the rest of us put together.”

Cordelia feels hot tears stinging at the healing wounds in her eyes and she trembles, struggling not to give way to the onslaught of emotion threatening her composure. _If Misty doesn’t survive the Seven Wonders, what is Cordelia going to do without her_? “I love you,” she whispers, faintly, against the tightness of her throat, and though it feels euphoric to finally say it there’s something nagging at the back of her head, wishing that she hadn’t said it, that she’d kept it in, because now––now, if Misty fails, it will be even harder to say goodbye.

“I love you too,” Misty says, and presses their lips together a little more insistently, running her hands down Cordelia’s shoulders. Cordelia gasps and leans breathlessly into the kiss, body aching for Misty’s touch. If this is their last night on earth together then she wants to feel it _all_. She wants to _see_ it all.

So she ghosts her hands over Misty’s skin, begging for a glimpse, and her inward eye opens––she can see what Misty sees, see what Cordelia herself _ought_ to see (a rush of hands, a crippling need buoyed between them both, a montage of clothing being torn off and cast aside, hair being tugged and bodies melding, sweat and moans and sighs and friction, twisted sheets and the faint hum of _Leather and Lace_ , a staggered climax that has them both spinning and clamoring for air).

And when the morning comes, Cordelia feels a little less monster and a little more human; and Misty calmly faces death once more––but this time, with no regrets.


	4. it was close to being, in heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Misty and Cordelia dancing, intimacy, domestic fluff.

One of your favorite things about Miss Cordelia (there are so many, you’ve tried to count them all but you lost track) is her shy appreciation of Stevie. It’s hesitant, not as vibrant as your arguable obsession, and comes in waves of small smiles and blushes when you put on your record and lend her a shawl. It’s beautiful. The blotches of color that appear beneath her skin when you take her hands and spin her around, the glow in her battered eyes that you swear you can see even though she doesn’t believe you (her hero eyes, that’s what you call them, because that’s what they are), the awkward breathiness that knots in her throat when you run your hands over her arms and tell her she’s doing a great job. It’s a wonder you’d lived so long without it. Without _her_.

Cordelia stirs against you and mutters something unintelligible into the crook of your neck, and you get goosebumps from her soft breath tickling your skin. She’s been staying up late a lot lately since the end of the Seven Wonders, since you were named Supreme, and last night you ensured to secretly turn off her alarm clock so she could get some much needed rest and relaxation (she’ll be miffed with you when she wakes up, probably, but you’re willing to shoulder that when the time comes because, lord, she’s about to run herself into the ground and hell if you’re going to stand by and watch). 

“Misty?” she says, and you grin widely at her (though she can’t see it). “What time is it?” 

Sunlight filters in through the window, glistening in her sleep-tousled blonde waves, and you plant a kiss on the top of her forehead. “Sleepytime,” you say, cheekily, and she lets out a long, drawn out yawn. “I let you sleep in a little,” comes your confession, and she lifts her head off the pillow instantly.

“How long is a little?” she asks, the intended tartness of her words blurred by the haziness of her waking. When you chuckle and remain silent, she persists with an anxious hiss, “ _Misty_! What time is it?”

“Judgin’ by the sun, I’d say it’s high noon,” you say, casually, and when Cordelia lets out a little gasp you’re laughing again because, good god almighty, she’s adorable. 

“My alarm––didn’t it go off?” Cordelia asks you, hurriedly, shooting up into a sitting position and clamoring for the walking stick by the side of the bed. 

You remain where you are, head leaning against the backboard. “That thing? May have turned it off last night,” you admit, flexing your stultified muscles against their sleepiness, totally unmoved by Cordelia’s frantic expostulations. This is how you love her. Frazzled, morning Cordelia; nervous, crazed headmistress given an extra five hours of sleep. You smile with a hum of smug self-satisfaction. “Myrtle wanted to teach the girls somethin’ today,” you add, in an attempt to pacify her, “Told ‘er you could use the day off.” You roll over to the other side of the bed and grab onto Cordelia’s back from behind––she hasn’t found her walking stick yet so she can’t get up, and you tug at her tightened shoulders gently but insistently, whispering, “Come back to bed. You been workin’ nonstop for _days_ , Miss Delia. You deserve a rest. Supreme’s orders.”

Cordelia sighs and leans back into your arms, albeit grudgingly. “I didn’t poke my eyes out so I could lay around in _bed_ all day, Misty,” she sasses, laying her head back on your shoulder (a spiral of guilt burrows into your gut when she says that but you ignore it, having become all too deft at deflecting her attempts at self-deprecation). “I’ll only let you get away with this _once_ ,” Cordelia groans, as your hands explore the soft warmness of her exposed neck. Your lips find her clavicle and she exhales sharply, hands weaving backward to knot in your hair (which, you’ve discovered, much to your delight, is her favorite place to put her hands). 

“Good girl,” you murmur against the shell of her ear. “Now,” you say, disengaging from her body slightly, “let me put on some Stevie,” you declare, just to get the privilege of seeing that flush of familiarity and pleasure on Cordelia’s face. Deciding for something a little smoother, you put on _Gold Dust Woman_ and slide back toward the bed, taking Cordelia’s hands in yours. “Dance with me,” you say. “I have something for you.” She furrows her brow, puzzled, and you saunter to your dresser and pull out a brand new golden shawl with daisies on it that you bought especially for her, because––just _because_. “Hold your arms out,” you instruct, stepping forward to drape the silky shawl over her shoulders.

“Misty,” Cordelia starts, running her hands over the fabric, and she’s about to say something more but suddenly she breaks into a vision of you spending hours shopping with Zoe and Kyle, going through dozens of thrift shops trying to find the right thing, finally settling on a silky, golden shawl with embroidered with daisies and fringed with little pink tassels, and––“It’s beautiful. It’s _perfect_ ,” she gushes, glowing, and your heart does a flip inside your chest.

“The daisies made me think of you and the greenhouse. And––the gold, it’s the color of your hair. Not as shiny, though. Nothin’ is as shiny as your hair. And the pink, well,” you say, taking a step forward to ghost your hand gently over her eyelids, “matches the color of them hero eyes.” 

Cordelia melts under your ministrations and leans forward into your chest, her arms weaving up to lock you in a tight embrace. “I love you,” is all she says, and you know that it means _thank you_. 

“Well, go on, show me your twirl,” you instruct, pecking her on the lips as a _you’re welcome_. 

And when she lets out that little sigh, smiles that little smile, blushes that little blush––well, you _did_ say Cordelia’s bashful dancing to Stevie is one of your favorite things, after all.

So you take a moment to watch––just a moment––before giggling and capturing her in your arms, swirling the both of you around and around much faster than the tempo permits, and soon you’re laying dizzied on the bed and Cordelia’s laughing in pealed shrieks and, _Christ_ , can this moment last forever, because you’ve never heard Cordelia laugh that hard and you never want it to stop.

But as soon as she realizes she’s let herself laugh Cordelia sobers, withdrawing inward to her place of comfort––of safety––of _penance_ (the place from which you fear you can never rescue her, though you won’t stop trying). Wordlessly, she reaches out to find your face with her hands and strokes her thumb over your lips, reveling in the feel of them against her skin. “Thank you,” she says, quietly. “I needed this.” And her words carry with them a sort of tired yet pleasant defeat. 

“Don’t mention it,” you reply, fondly, stroking her hair.

“I don’t deserve you,” Cordelia utters, in a hushed voice. “I don’t deserve any of this.”

“Hey, hey,” you counter, shaking your head, because she’s going to that dark place again and this was meant to _stop_ her from going there, dammit, not give her a one-way ticket. “None of that now, Miss Delia. You saved my life. Twice. _You deserve the world_. Don’t let anyone tell you different, you hear?” 

She nods faintly, grip on you tightening. “I love you,” you remind her, fervently. “ _Forever_.”

“ _Forever_ ,” she echoes, and knots your hands together.


	5. kind of woman that'll haunt you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A "returned from the dead" kiss.

The hourglass doesn’t care that Misty hasn’t woken yet, but Cordelia does (and maybe she’s the only one). The others stand in muted indifference, even those whose lives Misty had saved, but Cordelia sits on the ground beside her, cradling her in her arms, whispering in her ear as if somehow her powerless incantations will be heard; or, if that fails, the warmth from her chest will radiate through the cold of Misty’s body and revive her. The others may owe a debt to Misty for their lives, but Cordelia owes a debt to Misty for her soul, and the thought that she may never get to repay it almost makes her want to banish herself to her own personal hell for the same eternity that Misty now has to endure inside hers.

Myrtle is about to articulate the finality of that fate when a tiny, sputtering breath leaks from Misty’s mouth and for a miraculous second the world stands still as her eyes gingerly flutter open and fix themselves on Cordelia-–and for that blessed second, Cordelia swears that she can see her, bloodshot and moist and vacant as her own eyes have become. “Misty?” she manages, voice straining past the unshed tears trapped in the back of her throat. Misty stirs in Cordelia’s grasp, just enough to lift her head and move her hands to either side of Cordelia’s face, which inspires a fresh onslaught of sobs as Cordelia folds into herself in equal parts relief and shock. “I thought I lost you,” she whimpers, but Misty just smiles and shakes her head. 

“Me? Nah.” The swamp witch sounds brave, as always, but her own fear trembles through her voice between the sniffles that the others soon realize aren’t just coming from Cordelia. “I followed the light. Came back to you,” is all she says, with a soft inhalation perhaps intended to be a laugh. Cordelia’s uneven gasps hitch in her throat and she’s about to ask how Misty could understand latin, but Misty’s mouth makes it to her lips before the words do, and she suddenly forgets what words even are, anyway. 

The kiss is shy at first-–tender, yet fearful of rejection. Cordelia’s mouth, admittedly, goes slack for a moment, having been taken off guard, but when she finds her body again she pulls Misty closer and swallows her breath like ambrosia. Misty doubles the intensity, pushing back against Cordelia’s hungry mouth, allowing herself to be swallowed. 

(Myrtle says nothing, but she sees the hourglass pause as if to contribute its own relief with the gift of a second's eternity.) 

When it is over Misty and Cordelia exhale together and wordlessly adulate that first breath as the landmark of their freshly entwined futures. 

Robichaux’s is forgotten. The battle for the Supreme fades away. 

They need look no further-–the Seventh Wonder is here.


End file.
